


some place I've got to be

by ApatheticRobots



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Cyberverse
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Gore, but its like REALLY mild dw, fellas is it gay 2 help ur bro with his injuries while ur both hidin from alien invaders 😳
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApatheticRobots/pseuds/ApatheticRobots
Summary: Dead End doesn't care about any of the mechs he's ended up forcibly allied with. He really doesn't.He just thinks Perceptor's being a little stupid, not doing anything about his injuries.
Relationships: Dead End/Perceptor (Transformers)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	some place I've got to be

**Author's Note:**

> idk i wrote this in like two hours after consuming like five deadceptor fics in rapid succession. thank u user @Glitched_Fox for proofreading your taste is immaculate and you are gay <3
> 
> title is from "Need You Here" by IDKHOW because oh my god they just released RAZZMATAZZ on spotify please go listen to it it slaps so much

So, like, Dead End wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of knowledge about… anything. Like-- he wasn’t an  _ idiot. _ He knew enough about enough things that he could be useful. But there was always someone who knew more than him. Whether the topic be sports, physics, how to talk to people, optimism, cosmetics, you name it. Dead End probably knew a little, but you’d get more information from someone else.

But he definitely knew enough about medicine to know that walking around with an open wound was probably kind of bad.

It didn’t really make much sense that Perceptor… didn’t? Seem to know that? He was definitely the smartest of their little band of misfits, (Dead End considered himself the second smartest, mostly in a ‘common sense’ sort of way, since literally everyone else seemed to lack it.) and yet here he was, wandering around with one arm off and his blown out optics totally exposed.

The arm thing was pretty recent, actually.

Dead End had seen grosser injuries. What Perceptor looked like wasn’t the problem, not even close to it. It was more the fact that he had multiple open wounds and was just kind of… letting them sit there. Like, totally exposed.

He even still  _ had _ the arm, and the disconnect had been pretty clean. He just had to snap it back into place. So simple a repair even Dead End could do it.

...Did he just insult himself?

Whatever. Perceptor was smarter than him by a long shot and he wasn’t even trying to stop himself from getting an infection. So sighing to himself, cursing his bleeding spark, he got up and went over to the booth where Perceptor was seated.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound too uncomfortable. “You need some help with that?”

“Dead End. If you are gesturing to something, you must remember I cannot tell what it is. My scanner doesn’t work well at close range.”

Oh. Right. Pretending he totally hadn’t just gestured at something, he clarified; “Your arm. And your optics. It isn’t good leaving them exposed to open air like that, especially not with all the running around we’re doing.” 

Perceptor tilted his head. “I suppose you are a medical expert now?”

A huff. “No, but I’ve been in more battles than you have.” He didn’t hold Perceptor’s scientific background against him. Really, he didn’t. Intellectuals were a necessary factor for a successful organization. That was part of why Shockwave had gotten so much favor, had so much freedom within the Decepticons to do whatever the hell he wanted. Like experimenting on his troops. (Dead End stifled a shudder.) “Every mech worth their plating knows a little bit about repairs. So did you want help or not?”

After a moment of consideration, Perceptor shrugged. “My injuries are not impeding my ability to do my work. There is no reason to waste the time.”

Pause. “Did someone tell you that fixing you up was a waste?” Screw the Quints-- if someone had said something like that to Perceptor, he was gonna go out there and wake them up just so he could scrap them himself.

“No,” and that shouldn’t have been as much of a relief as it was, “I drew the conclusion on my own. We must not waste any time delaying our strategizing on how best to defeat the Quintessons, and as I can still function despite my superficial injuries, there does not seem to be a point.”

“Function, sure, but what if we’re trying to do something and you need two servos for it, huh? Or something explodes and you get shrapnel in your sockets and next thing you know it’s in your processor? You’re just gonna end up slowing us down.” Okay, maybe that was a little harsh, but threats (veiled as they may be) usually got  _ him _ moving when he’d been having a slow day. The ‘cons hadn’t taken kindly to wallowing or acting stupid about being injured. What good was a mech who couldn’t even stand? “We kinda need you in as good a condition as you can be in, Perce. None of us are gonna be doing any planning any time soon.” There, that was kinder. 

To Perceptor, at least. He’d insulted himself and the rest of their merry mechs in the same sentence. Whatever, they weren’t listening.

Something he said must have gotten through to Perceptor, because after several more moments of hesitating, he sighed and shifted to the side of the bench to allow Dead End room to join him. “Are you sure you are capable of such a procedure?”

He scoffed, ignoring how close they were as he sat and leaned over to examine Perceptor’s injured shoulder a bit closer. “I’ve reattached limbs plenty of times,” he said, and it wasn’t technically a lie. He’d done it twice before; once on himself and once on another mech (Primus bless Wildrider, that mech was a mess), which was plenty of times for him to be able to do it again. “Just hold still, will you?”

Perceptor did as told. That was nice, actually being listened to. Most mechs either ignored him or insulted him  _ then _ ignored him. 

“Clean break,” he muttered, leaning slightly closer and brightening his optics, wishing Maccadam’s was just a  _ little _ more well-lit so he could actually see what he was doing. “Should be an easy fix so long as nothing on the arm itself got snapped.”

“I did not realize common soldiers were trained for repairs,” Perceptor said, tone only betraying the slightest hint of surprise. 

Dead End shrugged. Only a little, though, he didn’t want to jostle anything. “There wasn’t exactly a surplus of medics in our ranks,” he said, pulling away from Perceptor and pretending he didn’t miss the close proximity as he examined the mech’s detached arm. “Couldn’t afford to call one out every time someone got badly injured on the field. So anyone who could learn did, and then they’d teach their friends, and so on and so forth. Ask any ‘con, they’ll probably at least be able to solder a scratch.”

“You seem to know a bit more than just that.”

“Yeah, well,” Dead End shrugged again. A reflexive gesture at this point. “A lot of the folks I hung around weren’t really careful. Had to drag their afts out of trouble more than once. Most medics got tired of fixing them, and our boss sure as scrap wasn’t gonna, so responsibility ended up falling to me.”

Perceptor made a noise of acknowledgement though said nothing in response to his words. Which, if Dead End was being honest, he was kind of grateful for. He didn’t wanna talk about the Stunticons right now.

“Hold still,” he said again, even though Perceptor hadn’t moved an inch since Dead End had asked him not to move the first time. “Gonna reattach it now. Can you disable the sensors in that area?” Reattaching it would probably hurt about as much as it had getting it ripped off. He didn’t want Perceptor lashing out and winding up hurting himself again. Not that he doubted the mech’s control, but frames had a tendency to react involuntarily to pain. (He had plenty of old scrapes to prove it.)

After a moment, Perceptor spoke; “Done.” 

Dead End flicked the plating around his shoulder to make sure he was telling the truth, and once he was satisfied that the feeling in the area really was deadened, he hefted Perceptor’s arm over. Most of the limb’s weight was rested on the table while he carefully connected detached wires, realigned struts, then shoved the limb forward with as much strength as he was able. To Perceptor’s credit, he didn’t even jolt.

“Okay, sensors on,” he said. “Anything feel weird?”

Perceptor lifted his newly reattached arm, flexing his digits a few times and stretching the limb to test its range of movement. “Slightly sore,” he said, “but nothing seems out of place.”

Nodding slowly, Dead End paused and internally cursed when he remembered Perceptor couldn’t see the movement. “Did you want help with your optics too?” 

“You can replace those as well?”

“Uh, no,” he braced himself, though Perceptor didn’t seem all that disappointed, “but I can at least cover the sockets so there’s no risk of any dirt or whatever getting in them. That’s a one way ticket to getting an infection if I’ve ever seen one.” He winced. The pun had been unintentional, really. At least Perceptor hadn’t picked up on it. (Or he was just being polite and ignoring it. One of the two.)

“Alright,” Perceptor said, and after flexing his servo a few more times to make sure it wasn’t about to fall off again, he set both arms on the table. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just… sit there. Give me a second.” 

He slid out of the booth and headed over to the bar. He ignored the curious looks from the rest of the party (all crowded into one booth together), hunching his shoulders defensively, and leaned on the countertop. He looked up (and up) and met Maccadam’s questioning optics. 

“Hey,” he said, hesitantly, awkwardly. “I need a washrag. A  _ clean _ one. And not clean like you rinsed it in solvent for a few seconds, clean like you could polish the Matrix with it.” This was supposed to help  _ prevent _ Perceptor’s injuries from getting infected. Using a dirty cloth would just make the risk higher. Which he really didn’t want to do. 

Maccadam smiled at him the way he always did, the look that said “I know something you don’t” without the mech actually having to say a word, and reached under the bar for a moment before pulling out a pristinely folded piece of white cloth. Long and thin-- perfect for what he needed it for. “I’m glad you finally got him to let you help him,” the bartender said, handing the cloth over and nodding in Perceptor’s direction. “It’s an important step for the both of you.” 

Which was  _ just _ cryptic enough for Dead End to pause in his return to their booth and squint at him suspiciously. “What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” Maccadam said with a laugh. He always seemed so jovial. It kinda pissed Dead End off. “I’m just happy to see things going well. I always had a soft spot for happy endings. Tell me; do you think you would be a good assistant?”

“...What?”

“Ah, nevermind, I’m sure you’ll figure out later.” He nudged Dead End. “Now go on, don’t want to leave him waiting.”

Maccadam was weird. Like, yeah, most mechs were pretty weird (especially the ones Dead End seemed to wind up hanging around, usually against his will and/or better judgement), but Maccadam was weird in a way that made Dead End feel like the bartender could see right through his plating. It was more than a little disquieting. He just gave the mech a perturbed look before turning away and heading back to where he’d left Perceptor sitting.

“It’s me,” he said as he approached, and Perceptor gave a slight nod. Didn’t want to startle the guy; he’d been told he could walk pretty quietly when he wanted to. Or just as a force of habit. “Gonna have to get kinda close.”

“That’s alright.”

Of course it was okay with  _ Perceptor. _ He wasn’t fazed by anything. It was just Dead End who was having a hard time keeping his frame from getting twitchy or his fans from clicking on. He was the only one who had an issue with the closeness. (If this could be called an “issue,” at least. Some would argue otherwise. Sentimental sacks of scrap.)

“Sorry,” he muttered as he got right up in Perceptor’s personal bubble, trying to keep his vents quiet so they weren’t harsh right in the other mech’s audials. He began winding the cloth around Perceptor’s helm, ignoring the way their plating kept brushing.  _ Focus. _

“It’s fine, Dead End,” Perceptor said, voice soft. “I don’t mind.”

“You never do,” Dead End grumbled, pulling the cloth taut and carefully tying the two ends together. “Shouldn’t fall off. If it starts getting loose, let me know.”

Perceptor tilted his head a few times, probably testing the validity of that statement about the cloth’s integrity, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what he found. “I…” He paused, hesitated, and Dead End found himself startled. Perceptor always seemed so sure about what he was saying. “I appreciate… this.” Except, apparently, in interpersonal matters.

Well, Dead End could relate.

He turned one servo over in a clear invitation. And, really, it would be rude not to take it. (Not that Dead End ever had a problem with being rude. But he could pretend he did, if only as an excuse.) 

So Dead End reached over and set his servo over Perceptor’s. The other mech wound their digits together.   
  


“Thank you, Dead End,” he said, his tone as earnest as Dead End had ever heard it. “I really am grateful for the concern.”

“Yeah, well.” The sentence went unfinished. He could have said more, probably. Offered some kind of justification. Said it wasn’t actually any kind of concern. Threw out a million excuses as to why he did it, anything that wasn’t the real reason. Said real reason being he simply wanted to help, because he didn’t like seeing Perceptor in any kind of pain, however ignorable it may have been. 

Perceptor’s hold on his servo tightened for just a moment. Then abruptly let go, and he pulled his servo away as Hot Rod approached their table.

“Hey, Perceptor, you free?” He narrowed his optics at Dead End. “Can I talk to you for a klik?”

“I--”

“Yeah,” Dead End said, shuffling out of the booth and getting to his pedes. “It’s fine,” he cut off the protest he knew was forming in Perceptor’s vocalizer. “We can talk more later.” 

It was an empty promise and he knew it. With the way things were going, even with their most recent revelation about the nature of Maccadam’s, there may not  _ be _ a later. They still didn’t really have a plan for beating the Quintessons. They’d have to do something eventually, they couldn’t just hang out in the bar forever, even if Dead End kind of wanted to.

Like-- he didn’t  _ want _ to leave their entire race at the mercy of hostile aliens forever. He really didn’t. But beating the Quintessons would mean freeing both Autobots  _ and _ Decepticons and then their little party would be rendered null and void. He would have to go back to following orders like a good little soldier and Perceptor would go back to his fancy laboratories and they’d likely never see each other again. Like sure, they were trapped and hiding for their lives, but it was  _ comfortable, _ this little thing they’d built. He didn’t like the other Autobots and he tolerated Clobber at best, but they were… allies. Friends? They weren’t obligated to fight just because they were on “opposite” sides. The little emblems printed on their frames didn’t mean slag. They were all united against a common enemy. And it was nice.

As much as he wanted to, he knew it couldn’t last. So he wouldn’t get his hopes up. He wouldn’t try to contribute to whatever this was.

And that was fine. Really.

He’d just have to get used to--

“Actually, Hot Rod,” Perceptor said, and Dead End could practically feel the glare on his plating despite the fact that not only were Perceptor’s optics covered but he  _ didn’t slagging have any. _ “We were in the middle of a discussion. If you could give us a moment?”

The speedster’s expression soured, but he returned to the table with Clobber and Whirl. Without much else to do, Dead End sat back down.

“You should talk with him,” he said, kind of uncomfortable but hoping it wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “We gotta figure out what we’re gonna do about all this. Can’t just keep putting the planning thing off.”

“Perhaps not.” Perceptor held out his servo again, and Dead End took it. Again. “But we were having a conversation.”

Dead End gave him a bewildered look, not that he could tell. “We weren’t even talking. We were just sitting here. We’re  _ still _ just sitting here.” Was Perceptor-- efficient, logical, goal-oriented Perceptor-- really putting off strategizing about how they were going to get rid of the  _ hostile alien presence _ on their world so he could… what, hold hands with Dead End? 

“Hm. So we are. It appears my observations were incorrect.” He shifted to the side just enough that he was leaning against Dead End, and Dead End instinctively moved an arm to set it around his shoulders. He angled his scope out of the way so it wasn’t stuck in Dead End’s face. “I suppose this is alright too.”

That got him an incredulous huff and a shake of the head that he  _ knew _ Perceptor could feel, with how his head had tilted to rest against Perceptor’s with a dull  _ thunk. _ “This is ridiculous.”

“If you are not comfortable with the contact,” Perceptor said, suddenly quiet, “you do not have to stay.”

It made Dead Ends’s spark warm, the fact that he was acknowledging his preferences and that he remembered his aversion to physical touch. Normally he would’ve said yes, because he never felt safe with someone being so close to him _. _ But… this was Perceptor. “Well, hey,” Dead End said as his arm around Perceptor’s shoulders tightened. “I never said  _ that.” _

A quiet laugh. Dead End grinned. His unstated mission “Operation: Make-Perceptor-Stop-Being-Such-A-Tight-Aft (more succinct name pending)” was a success.

“Hey,” Dead End said quietly after a few moments of silence, prompting Perceptor to tilt his head up slightly. “...You’re welcome. For the fixes.”

Perceptor gave him a little smile. Then leaned back against him, tucked in the crook of his arm, and let his frame go into standby mode. 

Yeah, their entire world was a little bit in danger. But they didn’t have any kind of a plan, and they were only five (six? Would Maccadam help?) mechs, and this was all pretty stressful. So, like, they could afford to take a bit of a break.

Just a bit.


End file.
